by Joyce Armor
“What the hell?” Rensalaar said, momentarily taking his focus off of Cal.
It was just the opportunity Cal needed. He spun around, pounding the hand holding the gun. It fired and he felt a blazing pain in his side. It wasn’t nearly enough to stop him from pummeling Rensalaar to the ground. The older man was surprisingly strong, and it was a tough battle. Cal saw someone from the corner of his eye and worried he was about to be overpowered when he saw Lindy, of all people, stepped into view. He continued struggling until she walked up and clouted Rensalaar in the head with her gun. The man collapsed, unconscious.
Cal sat back, exhausted, looking at Lindy. “What are you doing here?”
“Helping you?”
They both had regrets over not talking about the bank job before this.
“I should have…”
“I wanted to…” she said at the same time.
They both laughed. Then she saw the blood spreading on his side. “You’re hurt.”
She was tending his wound, wrapping it with a strip ripped from the bottom of her blouse, when the sheriff and a deputy approached.
“It was Rensalaar,” Cal hissed as Lindy tightened his bandage.
“Well, I’ll be,” the sheriff said. “Two of the ones in the bank are dead. The third is gut-shot, so it don’t look good.
“Rensalaar,” Cal said again.
The sheriff nodded. “He’ll hang.”
Cal looked at Lindy. “Let’s go home.”
“You’re going to the doctor, Mr. Bronson.”
He winced as he struggled to his feet. “Yes, Mrs. Bronson.” He kissed her. “Did you know I love you?”
She smiled. “No more than I love you.”
They started to walk off.
“Where are the horses?”
Epilogue
Three years later
Lindy poured herself a glass of cider and strolled over to a chair in the shade. Cal had made it, and it seemed to fit her aching back perfectly. At nearly nine months pregnant, she felt like an elephant and hoped the chair could withstand her weight. She looked out over the scene, smiling. There was Toby. She couldn’t believe how he had shot up. At age 11, he was already almost as tall as her. He looked so spiffy in his new brown trousers, tan shirt and brown string tie. And Bess, what a princess in her fluffy pink dress. Even at age seven, Lindy could see the beauty she would become.
And their grandfather, Mr. Cutter, was actually talking to people. He still was grouchy at times, but most people had long since realized it was mostly an act to keep people at a distance. He wasn’t exactly dressed up, though he wore clean clothes and no longer carried the ancient shotgun everywhere he went.
The hitching-post and other carvings business had gone so well, the old man had been able to buy back the 500 acres of land his grandpappy had developed. Of course, Lindy might have persuaded Bethany it would be better to quietly sell the acreage than risk an even worse scandal. After Cortland Rensalaar was hanged, his daughter moved back east, leaving the sale of their property to a solicitor. The rest of the land was purchased by an Englishman who was rumored to be some kind of royalty or some other type of mucky-muck. The third bank robber, the safecracker, who was shot in the abdomen, lingered for almost three months before succumbing to his wound.
Cal invested the reward from the three outlaws’ demise, which the sheriff insisted was his, to purchase tools and wood to begin a furniture-making business, which he conducted out of a building on his property. His Texas Ranger days were over now that he had a family to support, one he didn’t want to leave for long and dangerous periods of time.
Lindy grinned as Cal approached with their toddler, Cody, giggling on his shoulders.
“What are my two favorite men up to?”
“Just checking up on our favorite businesswoman.”
“You have to admit, this barbecue was a great idea. We’ve already taken in four new orders for hitching posts and several more for other carvings.”
“You know old man Cutter can’t live forever.” He bent down and lifted his son off his shoulders.
The little boy put his pudgy hands on his mother’s drink, and she helped him take a sip.
“Look over there,” she said to her husband.
He followed her eyes to a table, where Toby was carving under his grandfather’s supervision.
“And I’ve noticed you have done some pretty fine carving yourself.”
Cal smiled as he turned back to his wife, his beloved mail-order bride. She was more beautiful today than she was the day she stepped off the stagecoach, the day she nearly took his breath away.
“Oh, I forgot. I picked up a letter for you in town.”
As he reached in his pocket, she struggled to stand, and held out a hand to help her. He handed her the letter and she tore the envelope open, pulled out the missive and began scanning it. She smiled broadly.
“Good news?”
“My parents will be here in two weeks, and they’re bringing Anya.”
“She’s…?”
“18. Uh-oh.”
“What’s wrong with being 18? Cody, don’t wander off.”
The little boy made a circle and came back and stood on his father’s boots. Cal helped support him as he tottered.
“Nothing. The uh-oh is because I think we’re about to have a baby. She had to smile at the look of absolute panic in Cal’s eyes when he saw the water running down her leg. Her handsome, gallant former Texas Ranger looked like he might faint.
Quinn Calvin Bronson was born four hours later in a bedroom at the Cutter house. He was followed in the coming years, years of hardship and years of joy, by two daughters and another son, who thrived on the love, talent, faith and work ethic their parents shared. And the only time over those years Cal managed to help his wife into or out of a wagon was when she was nine months pregnant. She was that fit.
About the Author
Award-winning scribe Joyce Armor is a former television writer (“The Love Boat,” “WKRP in Cincinnati,” “Remington Steele”) and the author of numerous books, ranging from romance novels to parenting and humor books and a combination thereof. Her credits also include hundreds of newspaper and magazine columns and articles, children’s poetry and several produced plays. The mother of two grown sons, she lives in Mentor, Ohio, with her current soulmate, Darby, an Aussie/spaniel mix, and spends much of her non-reading, non-writing, non-schmoozing with friends and family time walking/running/getting dragged by the dog.
Email: [email protected]
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